On the off chance....,

....that anyone is still reading Blogs at this ridiculous hour on Christmas Eve when, by rights, you should be grumpily peeling sprouts and wrapping the last of the gifts you bought your other half 6 months ago but forgot about and just found at the back of the wardrobe.  Now all that's left is a patchwork of High Street Musical and Bob the Builder wrapping paper so tough tits, Shah.

As ever, I am struggling with Christmas.  When the distant past only ever produced massive emphasis on the religious aspects and little of material cheer (childhood) and the more recent past the shitty presents that the Shah thought hilarious, can you blame me? 

Anyway, I am trying my hardest.  Far too disorganised to buy a Yule Log when they were available in the shops, daughter and I resorted to making one earlier this evening.  We had a choice of Mary Berry or Lorraine Pascal.  We went with Lorraine - I'm a big fan.  Unfortunately, I am not a big baker and our first effort turned out like a rubber biscuit with a texture that meant it took hours to masticate (steady...) a mouthful.  When it came out of the oven, it looked like this:-

A bit on the biscuity side...

"Never mind," i said to disappointed daughter.  "It'll be fine when we roll it."

Ahem...

So in the bin with Lorraine's effort (and I followed the bleedin' instructions to the letter) and we started again with good old Mary's recipe.  This version is looking more promising:-

This is it cooling.

Then it got iced.

And the final result...

By this time, I had lost the will to live with it all, so the credit should go to daughter's artistic efforts with a fork, roughing up the icing and sprinkling the "snow".

Happy Christmas to everyone who has taken the time to stop by and read my humble bloggette.  Thank you all - see you in 2013!

CQ x

Barney? My Arse.

I've spent some time considering the title of this post.  There were so many to choose from - 'Bottoms Up'?  Or 'In Which the Bottom Falls Out of My World'? or 'The Bottom Line'? 'From the Bottom of My Heart and the Heart of My Bottom'?  'A Bum Deal'? 'What a Bummer!'? Oh the list is endless and provides yet more proof that I have missed my vocation in life and should have been a Sun headline writer.  In the end, I have gone with a touch of traditional rudeness, chosen mainly because it will mean nothing to you, my invisible chums, but it will make the Shah laugh.

This sorry tail tale begins last Wednesday when I missed my footing on a step into the Living Room (Crap Cottage, for those who have missed previous eye-rolling references to it, is very old and there are steps in and out of every room which can become a little hazardous at times). As my ankle gave way beneath me, I fell backwards - and could I just add (because I know what you're all thinking) that NOT ONE DROP of alcohol had been taken. That came later.  As I fell, I managed to land on my well-padded backside on the edge of another step (I told you there were loads).  At the time, I was more concerned with my ankle which, ironically, turned out to be fine.  My poor bum, however, was not.  

Almost passing out from the pain (no exaggeration) I staggered to the nearest mirror and contorted myself to try and view the damage.  There was a slight red line.  Feeling a bit of a drama queen, I assured everyone I was fine and tried to sit down.  Big mistake.  Big, BIG mistake. There followed a sort of a comedy cartoon moment as I tried to stand up again instantaneously - a bit like Tom and Jerry running in mid-air.  I found some mega-strong painkillers that had been prescribed for the Shah for some sporting injury or other years ago and necked one pronto.  It did nothing for the pain but, boy did I have some interesting dreams!

The following morning, a small bruise had appeared.  I took another painkiller and drove to work, perched on one buttock.  And, by the way, I am pronouncing 'buttock' the Forrest Gump way from now on...

Got sent home from work on the grounds that I was away with the Fairies and no good to man or beast.  Got home, pointed butt at mirror.  Such was the swelling and bruising by this time, that I looked like a woman with two arses, one of them purple.

Waited for the Shah to get home to update him on the damage.  As I said to someone the next day, you can tell you've been married too long when you strip naked, bend over and say to your husband "take a look at that!" and he shrieks "OHMIGOD!" and gags slightly.

This is what he saw.....are you ready for this?  Here is the big reveal....take a deep breath....sit down....okay....now scroll down a bit...

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OH COME ON!  You didn't seriously think I was going to get my purple arse out on the web did you?  Sorry - but I'm not that kind of gal!  

The Shah reeled from the shock of seeing my one entirely purple butt-ock and other, peripheral bruising and was actually quite nice to me for the rest of the evening.  The following day, he even texted to ask how I was - unheard of - as the minute he leaves the house, he completely forgets that he has a wife, a son, a daughter, a cat etc until he's putting his key in the lock again.  Of course, it wasn't all rosy (haha).  His last text went - "I've got a new nickname for you.  Barney!"  Me:  WTF? Shah:  Barney, the purple arse-o-saur!" He's so happy with this level of wit that he hasn't stopped using it since.

All I can find to say in return is, Barney?  My Arse!

The less said the better

Only 24 hours after the announcement of the Royal pregnancy and I have already reached overload.  I guess we could all have predicted the hysteria that would accompany such a reveal – The Sun's ever-punning headline writers have outdone themselves this morning – and the world’s press is camped outside the King Edward VII Hospital for Officers (to give it its full title) in London’s Marylebone.  You would think (hope) that in the wake of the recent debacle over phone hacking by the UK press and it being demonstrated to be a bunch of sharks, rotters and scum-sucking bottom feeders, it might have collectively decided that the less said the better.  But no.

You have to feel for Kate.  Not only is she feeling like crap as most do in their first trimester, she is having to contend with the incessant, uncontrollable vomiting that is hyperemesis gravidarum and do the whole thing in the public eye.  So while she is talking to God on the great white telephone, the rest of the world is obsessing over whether, if it is a girl, will they call it Elizabeth or GOD FORBID – DIANA!!  Actually, what a hoot if it did turn out to be a girl and they do call her Diana and she takes after Uncle Harry and shags her way round the world, getting herself photographed naked on a throne or two whilst puffing on some suspiciously home-made looking cigarettes….  But please God, don’t tell me we are now in for 9 whole feckin’ months of Kate ‘n Wills baby fever.  Let it be twins, I beg you.  Then at least she’s had an heir and a spare and can safely relax and none of us has to go through the whole horrible experience twice.

So all of this and Kate finds herself in the Royal Family’s hospital of choice when I am damn sure she would rather be ensconced in some swanky private clinic.  Not that King Ed VII is a hole in the ground – far from it – and I should know because I worked there for a spell during my nursing days.  I expect it may have been done up by now, but the skanky nets, still at the windows, tell another story.  There was nothing massively wrong with it – it was a good, safe place with decent nursing care but it was a bit, well, bare.  In fact, probably exactly the sort of cell-like environment enjoyed by the Royals at Balmoral or any of their other draughty castles.  I have memories of few pictures on the walls, no carpet – brown lino instead – and everything being a bit utilitarian. I expect the Windsors feel right at home there.

Mind you, that didn’t seem to stop the great and the good from queuing up to be admitted.  During my time, I looked after the grandfather of a famous journalist, a film director and the odd model or two (usually having their wisdom teeth out to enhance their gaunt faces) amongst others.  Princess Margaret was admitted while I was there, but not on my floor.  I heard via the grapevine that she was very nice but quite demanding.  Didn’t like the hospital food and kept sending out for chopped liver sandwiches.  Bleurgh!

Princess Michael of Kent was also admitted whilst I was there.  She was on my floor.  And the less said about her, the better!